


Give and Take

by deepdownstarkraves



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genderbending, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepdownstarkraves/pseuds/deepdownstarkraves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost every encounter, every confrontation with him has been coupled with open hostility. Why should this moment with him be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and Take

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Whiplash community! I finally got around to watching the movie and decided to write a fic. This story is actually a scene from a bigger story that will never be. As the tag states, there is genderbending. Andrew (Andrea) and Jim (Jamie) are women. Also, fair warning, I'm not part of the less is more crowd. This is very explicit.

 

Sometimes, the size of him against you is overwhelming.   

You’d taken notice before. It is impossible not to when Fletcher strides into his classroom, his signature black t-shirt stretching over his chest as he raises his muscled arm and curls his fingers into a tight fist. Or when, during the taxi ride back to his apartment, his large hands circle your entire waist, his thumbs easily framing your navel. Or when you meet him for the second time, before your first practice session, and he braces an arm next to your head, cages you in and leans forward, right into your personal space and looks you straight in the eye. Now, standing in Fletcher’s kitchen, pressed up between him and a wall, it’s all you can think about, and you know he likes that.

Fletcher offered you a glass of bourbon and it’s what you’re nursing now, pretending to have more bravado than you actually do when you say, “So are we going to fuck or not?” 

Fletcher laughs, easy and warm, but his eyes, when they catch in the light, are sharp and watch you critically. “Why are you rushing?” he asks quietly and you stiffen, just a little bit, at the words. But when he settles a palm flat against your hip and shifts his weight slightly, there is the unmistakable feeling of a hard cock digging into your stomach. 

You feel heat rush to your face as you slowly take one last sip of your drink before you carefully place it on the kitchen countertop. Fletcher starts to open the buttons of your dress as he gently, deliberately rocks his hips against you. The motion lifts you briefly off your feet.

You get this familiar rush of panic that settles right in the center of your chest. Fletcher can harm you, rip off your dress and have his way with you right here, right now, and there would be nothing you could do to stop him. But then, the panic shifts to arousal, and a sweet, slow heat shivers its way down your body and further still. It’s not the sharp flash of lust you usually feel when you’re around him, but a deep, liquid burn rising, simmering.

You turn your back on his questioning look as you pull your dress over your head and start toward the living room. You can hear him following behind you, sitting on the couch, and when you turn to face him, you feel the boldness from before quickly leaving you. What are you doing? Why are you here? There were knowing looks, from the men and the women, when Fletcher took you by the elbow and hailed a cab outside of Carnegie. Knowing and nasty looks and you can just picture your Jamie’s brows knitting together in worry, her pleading expression as you stepped into the taxi.

“Andrea,” Fletcher calls, and it catches you off guard. Fletcher only calls you Neiman or some stupid, patronizing name to provoke you. But him saying your first name, saying it so firmly, reminds you of that time Fletcher caught you in a school bathroom stall with your skirt hiked up to your waist and your trembling hand gripping so tightly at—

“Come here,” he breathes and you do, your thoughts focusing solely on him.

You straddle him, knees burying into the cushions as your thighs press against his. You try not to feel self-conscious as his gaze, half-lidded, lingers on your swaying breasts. You look down, past Fletcher’s flushing face and down between his legs where his cock is full and clearly straining against the front of his pants. Fletcher spreads his legs wider under your stare.

“I thought you didn’t like women,” you say.  You have been suspicious for a long time but you only mention it to catch Fletcher unawares.

But it doesn’t work. His expression doesn’t change and there is no outward reaction. Fletcher merely licks his lips and finally looks up at you, hazy-eyed. “What do you think I like?” he asks casually, bringing his hands up to your waist. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?” 

Fletcher’s hands are rough and you’ve always known they were. Fletcher would not be who he is without them. But against your skin, you feel every callous, nick, and scar, and you wonder if the rest of Fletcher’s skin feels the way his hands do. And his palms so broad, his fingers so long that they circle your middle as strong thumbs stroke firmly at your soft belly.  

One hand reaches down to touch the wetness soaking through your underwear before he cups you in his large palm. That’s when you remember and you try to shift away. “Wait—”

But it’s already too late. Fletcher is closely inspecting your underwear with a raised brow, fingering the sizeable hole close to the waistband, frowning at the way they sag against you, the elasticity long gone.

“What?” you demand. “They’re comfortable.”

“Hot Pussy?” he asks, reading the neon pink words along the front.

You’re mortified but you cover it up with a smug expression. “That’s what it says.”

Fletcher circles the hole again, his frown softening into a smirk. “Where did you get this from? Forever 21?”

“Oh, look at that. Old man pervert knows a store other than Stein Mart.”

You want to say something else, something meaner, and it’s just on the tip of your tongue but then Fletcher fits his mouth against yours. It’s a chaste kiss, almost hesitant. Then he bites your bottom lip, slowly slides his tongue against it, sucks at it so slowly and thoroughly that the pulse between your legs becomes a steady, wonderful throb. Fletcher slips his tongue into your mouth as he thrusts his hips up, drags his length, inch by inch, against your damp underwear and the friction against your clit is so delicious. You tremble. You _want_.

“Take them off,” you mutter against his mouth. Fletcher grips your underwear, _yanks_ , and it tears easily and falls to the floor, ruined. You’re a little embarrassed by how wet you are. Fletcher’s barely touched you but there’s so much slickness between your legs, a tightness there, and you feel it even more so with the cool air coming from the A/C.  

His finger touches your folds, just grazing, before he brings his hands up to grip your ribs. And for the briefest of moments, you think—you hope—Fletcher will flip you on your stomach, part your legs, and work his cock into you, make you fuck yourself on it. But Fletcher only gives your torso a squeeze before he’s gathering your breasts into his hands. 

You shiver slightly and break into gooseflesh when Fletcher flicks his thumbs over your stiffening nipples. And you see it more than anything else, how hard they already are, how the pink skin of your areolas pull up and crinkle around them when Fletcher exhales and lets his breath feather over them. Your breasts feel vulnerable, you feel vulnerable, soft and pliable, when Fletcher cups your slim hips, when his large palms squeeze your thighs, when he catches the back of your knee and easily brings your leg up and out, and that strange anxiety and hesitation start to creep up again, stuttering your breath.

You carefully grip his wrists and smother those feelings, settle his palms back on your hips and take a deep breath. 

“Watch me,” you tell him. “Just watch me.”

Fletcher looking at you, it does something to you, always has. So you close your eyes and slide a hand down your tummy, slowing as your fingers crest the slight swell of your mound. You hesitate for a few seconds, listening to Fletcher breathe, feeling his thighs tense and relax against your own, and then you keep going.

You feel full down there, so swollen and so slick you ache. And when your middle finger slides against your clit, you exhale loudly through your nose and circle it once, feeling a pleasant shiver course through you, thrumming through your veins. Twice you circle, smearing the wetness all over your lips. By the third time, your legs are spreading wider, and your other hand is gripping at Fletcher’s lapel, wrinkling his crisp, white button-down.

“Feel good,” he says, half question. 

You only nod, your thighs trembling, your nipples tightening, when you press your index and middle into your folds, two knuckles deep. You push down, twist your hips and pretend you’re riding him, pretend he’s inside of you. You arch your back, you moan, and Fletcher’s cock twitches against you in response. 

He slowly pushes your knees further apart, and you don’t need to open your eyes to know that Fletcher is watching you slowly, deeply work your fingers inside of yourself, that your cunt is flushed and aroused, that the dim overhead light catches the wetness that lines your open slit, shiny and slippery.

He carefully rests his palm against your thigh and it’s irritating. Fletcher is being gentle, infuriatingly gentle, and this is not the way you imagined this night the moment you crossed the threshold into his home. Almost every encounter, every confrontation with him has been coupled with open hostility, a vicious, endless cycle you’re not entirely sure how to end.

It’s always the same: you mess up during a session, Fletcher belittles you in front of the others, grips tight at the back of your neck as you stumble through a solo piece. And you curse and mutter under your breath and get so fucking wet from the humiliation, from the insults, that you press your pussy against the edge of your chair and pray you don’t get caught. And now you’re thinking about getting off, about coming right against your chair and making sure Fletcher knows it when you miss your lead in for the next measure, miss everything Fletcher _just said_ , and his hold on your neck is hard enough to bruise as he singles you out again, hisses in your ear _you stupid, little cunt_ and so on and so forth.

You don’t know when exactly tolerance shifted to acceptance and morphed into expectation but this is what you want. You are long past the point of embarrassment or shame. Why should this moment with him be any different from the others?

So lost in your thoughts, you startle when Fletcher lifts you off his lap just long enough to push his pants and boxers down and ease his cock out. He watches you as you watch him stroke himself, gripping firmly at the base then dragging his fingers over his length before he palming his leaking, swollen head. He is large, more thick than long, and even in his fist, his cock looks heavy.

You picture yourself slowly sinking down on it, how his dick would feel filling you so fully that it makes your toes curl, makes you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making any noise. You clench wetly at the thought of it, and the little squeeze feels so good around your fingers that you moan quietly and do it again.

Fletcher notices and you avert your gaze, flushing. “I’ve seen bigger,” you say, just because.

Fletcher just chuckles deep in his chest before he’s reaching for your thrusting fingers and placing his hand against your wrist, asking for permission.  You hesitate for a moment before you withdraw your fingers, leaning over to place your hand, wet and sticky from your slick, on his cushions when Fletcher’s grip on your wrist stops you. 

“My couch costs more than a year’s worth of your apartment rent,” Fletcher snaps.

“We’re already half naked on it. Does it really matter?” you ask, inching your shiny fingers toward the sofa.

Fletcher’s hold on your wrist tightens, to the point you feel a sharp pain when the bones creak together. But you barely notice it. You only have eyes for his gaze, and Fletcher is watching you with dark, narrowed eyes and a deep frown that erase any trace of that relaxed, smug expression from before.

You smile and relent, ease your hand away from the couch. But the moment Fletcher’s grip loosens, you bring your hand up to lightly trace your fingers against his lips. His mouth immediately falls open, and a warm, rough tongue flicks out to lick a long stripe along your index and middle, sucking fully when you press your fingers into his mouth. This time, when Fletcher kisses you, it’s hard and all teeth. But you always give as good as you get, mashing his bottom lip into a bruise as the taste of you spreads on your tongue. 

Fletcher runs his knuckles along your folds, and you stretch your head back, breaking the kiss so you can pretend not to notice his eyes lingering on the little scars on your inner thighs. Your only warning is Fletcher’s warm breath fanning over your neck before he’s pressing his mouth against your throat and lower. Then he’s biting into the flesh below your collarbone, circling your clit with a knuckle, and you answer him with a sigh. Fletcher does it again, biting _almost_ hard enough to draw blood as he slowly inches his finger inside of you. You shudder against him, press your lips together to keep from moaning but Fletcher is looking at you with keen eyes.

“Which is it, Neiman?” he asks, his voice a low murmur. 

“Which is what?” Feigning ignorance, when you know exactly what Fletcher is talking about, is the quickest way to piss him off.

Fletcher’s finger slows to sluggish pace before he stops. But you twist your hips, thrust against his finger until he’s bracing your hip so hard you know large finger-shaped bruises will form.

“Is it me or the biting?” He nips hard at the shell of your ear, follows it with his tongue, hot and caressing as he presses you so close to his chest.

Maybe him, maybe both, fuck, you don’t know, you don’t care, and you don’t want to analyze it too deeply because then—

There’s a scar that runs along your torso, thin and ugly, the biggest one you have. Fletcher traces his tongue along the length of it, mouthing it before he _bites_. Your breath hitches as your eyes flutter shut.

Is it him or the biting?

You’d rather cut out your own tongue than admit anything to Fletcher, so you squirm in his lap and hope you can distract him when you cup your breasts and pinch your nipples. It works, sort of. He catches the tip of your left breast between his lips and sinks his teeth over the soft skin, tugs hard. And there’s more pain than pleasure but you’re pushing your chest forward as it sets off a hot tightening low and deep in your belly. It has you grinding yourself against Fletcher’s finger to get any kind of friction.

He finally releases your hip, adds a second finger with the first on your down thrust. Fletcher sucks at your nipple before he’s back to your collarbone, nipping and lapping at the bite mark there. It feels so good, better than anything else he’s done with you tonight, that the words are tumbling from your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“I like the biting,” you whisper, titling you head back, exposing your neck.

It must be enough for him because Fletcher is moving forward, grabbing your nape and biting down not so gently on your throat, working his fingers so deeply into you that each upward stroke has you clenching around him. You give up trying to keep pace when his thrusts quicken. You just spread your legs and let him do what he wants.

You can’t steady the shake in your voice when you say, “D-Don’t s-stop.”

And Fletcher is _amused_ , the fucker. “Or what?” he challenges, moving away from your neck, ceasing all movement, fingers easing away as if he’s going to pull out.

The anger flares up quicker than you realize and you’re snatching up at Fletcher’s cock in your hand, _squeezing_ so hard that you hope it hurts. But you know it won’t. Jamie always teases you when you challenge her to an arm wrestling match and lose miserably. No upper body strength, she’d said with a playful tsk.

You bite Fletcher’s ear, sucking hard, skin trapped between your teeth as you wait him out. His hand is back on your hip as he releases a long, shuddering breath, and the sound reverberates through you. You do it again, twice more, and Fletcher’s cock jerks in your grip as the tip seeps slippery liquid between your fingers. You let go of his ear and fix your gaze on his length. All through this—you’re not sure what to call it anymore—Fletcher has been infinitely patient. For the most part, taking your lead and moving at your pace but you are not foolish enough to believe his consideration has been for your benefit.

You slide a calloused fingertip over the small slit of Fletcher’s erection, press a thumb along a large vein just below the swollen, fat head. “Is this good?” 

The amused expression is back on Fletcher’s face, as if he knows what you’re thinking. “I’ve had worse,” he answers, voice steady, and the anger is back and you have the urge to make it much, much worse, to twist Fletcher’s nipples, to scrape your teeth along his cock, to bite him hard enough that bruises bloom dark under your mouth. Anything to take away the last bit of control he clings to because this, just like all the others, is another standoff and you will not shrink away from it. You will not lose to him. 

You fist the base of Fletcher’s cock, notice that your fingers just barely enclose it, and stroke up languidly. Fletcher is so, so hard in your hand, and he feels like steel beneath soft, velvety skin. When your fingers reach his fleshy head, the muscles in his torso tense, and a thick drop of cloudy liquid eases out of the tip. You repeat the motion as you watch him, twist your hand from base to head, and Fletcher grunts. 

Your hand is slick from him, and you let your fingers circle more fluid over his firm, purplish tip. You give Fletcher’s cock a handful of hard, slow tugs, couple the motion with your teeth biting his nipples, licking and sucking as you stroke up and rub the underside of his head. More liquid spills out, so much so that you actually hear it— _taptaptap_ —against Fletcher’s flexing thigh.

When he moans, low and soft and shaky, the sound starts a steady throb between your legs, makes you tremble too, makes you want to fuck Fletcher so badly, bury his dick inside and make him arch and groan and make _that noise_ again. 

Instead, you catch Fletcher’s eye, give him that shit-eating grin you know he hates, and he makes a visible attempt to change the unfocused expression on his face to something more familiar. Your smile fades when Fletcher shifts, takes your hand off his cock and dips his fingers back inside of you, slow and hard, no more teasing, and with each thrust in, slick noises cut through the air.

You anchor your heels against the couch cushions, use the leverage to push yourself off Fletcher’s lap, and roll your hips in time with his thrusting fingers. He lightly drags a thumb along the length of your clit, from bottom to top, and pleasure shoots down your spine, makes the ache in your cunt almost unbearable. Fletcher does it again and again, almost leisurely, as he seizes a handful of your hair, yanks your head back to get a better angle, and bites down hard on your throat, teeth sinking into your pulse.

Heat pools in your gut and you don’t care about the noises you’re making because Fletcher’s fingers are hot and incessant and he _hums_ in approval and that might be your breaking point.

You’re sure your eyes roll back, your hips giving a stuttering jerk as you come all over Fletcher’s hand. And he doesn’t stop, just keeps gently, steadily stroking your clit, just keeps fucking his thick fingers into you with those hard, perfect thrusts as you clench and shudder and whimper through your orgasm. Fletcher only stops when you’re trembling against him, a puddle of sweat and come and bruises. 

He says something about you being greedy but you can’t summon the words to respond. You just turn your head to wedge it in the crook of his neck and shoulder, breathing him in, sweat and heat, and enjoying the afterglow. Fletcher removes his fingers from you, and the motion sends little, pleasant twitches and jolts through you. 

You brace your hands against his knees when he leans you back just a little bit, gently grips you and spreads you open, displays you, full and pink and soft-looking, for his gaze. Fletcher presses his cock against you, and it’s hot and slippery, your wetness smearing the underside of his length. He drags his hands up to your ass, holds you and uses his touch to pull you right against him, your hard nipples brushing up against his chest.

Slowly, so slowly, Fletcher brings your pelvis forward, and you match his pace, roll your hips and drag your drenched cunt along the hard thickness of his cock. When you glance at Fletcher, his eyes are fixed on where your bodies are joined, and you grind your hips against him, lips open wide and gliding down against the sides of his dick, leaving him so wet. Then you slide right back up, stopping at the tip, circling your hips around Fletcher’s head in a way you hope is obscene. It feels like your folds, swollen and flushed and full, are swallowing his thick cock-head.

Then finally, _finally_ , Fletcher lays you on your back, spreads your legs, and drives his cock against you like he wants to be inside of you. You try to arch your back, meet his thrusts, but Fletcher holds you down and braces himself against you like a solid wall. When he buries his face in your neck, you settle for whispering in his ear.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you murmur, breathless. His reaction is immediate. Fletcher moans, grinds into you, hard, for the first time. Hard enough that you can really feel the size of his cock compared to your everything else. Predictable old man.

But his reaction still interests you, still makes your pussy tighten. You run your fingers down his back, trace his ear lightly with your tongue as you say, “Look how wet I am for you. I want you. Fletcher, I _want_ you.” He chokes on his breath as you nip his ear, scratch your nails down his shoulder blades and whisper, panting, “God, fuck me.”

Fletcher comes saying your name, a ragged, shaky gasp that splits the word into three distinct sounds. And Fletcher, trembling and _weak_ against your breasts, taking great gulps of air, is such a sight. You revel in it and when you stroke his cheek with your fingers, feel him relax against you, you know this is enough, for now.

You only give Fletcher enough time to catch his breath before you’re moving away from him. You don’t want to linger here, not with him. You dress as you finish off your bourbon from earlier, cursing when you slosh a little bit of it on your dress. Fletcher, still nude from the waist down, is looking at you from the couch, lethargic and sated. You pretend you don’t notice his gaze.

As you make your way toward the front door, Fletcher says, “Think about what I said, Neiman. You should really take advantage of what I’m offering you. If you work with me, you may have what it takes.”

Fuck you, you think. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. 

But you only smirk, scooping up your damp, torn underwear and dropping it across Fletcher’s mouth, pressing it right below his nose. His glare makes you smile. 

“Something to remember me by,” you say before you leave without another word.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos are loved and comments are especially appreciated. I'm trying to improve my writing so any comments, suggestions, or critiques will be so helpful for me. Please don't worry about offending me. Thanks, again!


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